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(For Jan. 18th 1931 See p. 322) 206 Jan. 29 [[Strikethrough]] Tuesday, July 24, 1928 [[/Strikethrough]] Bob! Topstone Farm, Ridgefield, Conn. This is a very swell place — simple and pretty. The Gierash's are nice - real and direct, and quite absorbed in the country and real estate and their children and sort of finished with the intense living of the city, and are now intense in this atmosphere. I think, however, that they regret a little that "the private life of the Gierash's is a myth." Paul is very singular looking, blue, blue eyes and to much grey hair, but he is a sort of very human person and a little sad; quite impersonal: quite wonderful with horses. The children are cute. The only distractions have been the numerous cats; the enormous police dog, and the interminable questions of little Stephane. I came up here feeling quite lousy, and in a fog mentally and physically. I do feel better. The walks in the country through the snow and slush, helped everything dissolve into a crystalline clarity. I see now my relationship with Bob. I see that I do love him, inspite of the fact that some of the glamour has peeled off, as paint in the sun. I see that 207 Wednesday, July 25, 1928 I know him better and that knowing him better, I have seen a great many ugly characteristics. I see that this phase of our relationship lately has not been natural! I see that we must either get it back where it was or go on. I see that Bob has been a great deal too demanding, and that I have perhaps been a bit inconsiderate. I see that we have talked too much about marriage and as a result we take it for granted. I see that we must be very sensible if we want this to last. I see that I do want it to last, that I do love Bob and he loves me. I see that we've both got to work to keep it nice and un-disturbing. So be it! The nights have been beautiful. Whole large expances of star lit sky. The air has been fresh and clear. The sky in the day time has been clear. I was for one night most terribly home-sick and really longed to be home. but that passed and now I am sorry to leave. I had planned doing a million different things. Writing lots of poetry and writing all the [[strikethrough]] play [[/strikethrough]] short-stories I had contemplated, and all the letters, but somehow they never got done. Time has just sort of slipped through my fingers while I've read and slept and ate and stood at the little casement window and dreamed into the night. And yet I can't feel this has been a waste of time; far
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